


On the Importance of Maintaining Friendships

by lethargy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Didn't Know They Were Dating, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, aziraphale throws a fit when crowley stops paying attention to him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:17:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22249369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethargy/pseuds/lethargy
Summary: In the months leading up to the apocalypse, they were seeing each other nearly every day. And then, quite suddenly, they weren’t anymore. Aziraphale decides to do something about it.Or: The one where Aziraphale insists on maintaining regular "friend dates" with Crowley, and it slowly drives Crowley insane.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 123
Kudos: 566





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first-ever published fic, and I'm posting it because, after 15+ years of loitering and reading and writing unpublished fic on the side, I've decided to commit to a New Year's Resolution to actually publish a dang thing. And why not in the wonderful fandom that helped me rediscover fandom as an adult?
> 
> This is un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine, feel free to point them out to me. (I don't even really know how that beta thing works.) This is also now complete. Yay!
> 
> Is this too long of a beginning note? It probably is. I'm rambling! I've never done this before! OK here's the fic! Ah!

_One month after they dine at the Ritz and Crowley bolts, panic in his eyes, the second Aziraphale finishes his final bite._

Aziraphale turned the sign on his bookshop door to closed and faced his empty shop.

 _C’mon, angel_ , he told himself in a voice that sounded, quite unfortunately, all too familiar. He took a deep breath and forced himself to move. He really ought to keep reading that biography of Vincent Van Gogh. That would be a productive thing to do with his time. Reading it was on his new list of goals that he wrote for himself, now that he had an eternity of unemployment ahead of him. 

He found himself gravitating upstairs toward his bed instead, a fairly recent furniture addition to his flat. He’d never had one, before. He hadn’t liked to sleep, hadn’t seen the appeal. No matter what Crowley said, it felt like a horrible waste of time. Now, though, he’s suddenly found himself sleeping rather quite a lot. He felt finally understood its use. Sleep was a blessed escape from the unbearable nothingness of being awake. But the more he slept to avoid his now dreadfully boring existence, the worse it was when he woke up.

He’d never had a problem doing nothing before. Heaven could go long stretches without handing out assignments—months, years, sometimes decades—and it never once felt like this. But now… well, now there was the Crowley of it all, wasn’t there?

Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he presumed things would suddenly be different. It’s not like they had seen each other that frequently over the last six millennia. 

But it had been different, then, hadn’t it? Aziraphale was quite sure he wasn’t imagining it. They had gone from seeing each other every few centuries to every few decades to every few months to practically seeing each other every day, near the end of days there. Aziraphale had never interacted with an acquaintance that frequently or regularly in his entire existence. And, truth be told, he loved it. He felt alive. It had awakened something in him, a thirst to be known by another as intimately as he could know himself. It was a way of life he’d seen countless humans chase after, and while he thought it sweet for them, he had never once considered such an existence for himself. It simply wasn’t the way things were done in Heaven. 

But now Aziraphale could see that Crowley was right. There were no sides any more for them, and even if there were, Aziraphale could never go back to seeing Heaven as the all-knowing pillar of morality he once thought it was. Heaven was wrong, and the humans, well—they may not always be right, but they were right to want this, to want regular companionship with someone who knows them. There was no one else in the world who knew Aziraphale like Crowley. And now Crowley wasn’t speaking to him. 

Oh, well done, angel, Aziraphale thought miserably to himself, and yes, fine, he imagined it in Crowley’s voice. You’ve gone and worked yourself up into a right state.

He rolled over on the bed, curled into his side, screwing his eyes up and trying to will himself asleep instead of the torrid of negative thought loops he knew were about to come. He couldn’t stand another night of torturing himself with the questions. Where was Crowley? Why hadn’t he called? What had he done wrong? Would he ever see him again?

If Crowley were here, he’d tell him to stop being such a drama queen, no doubt. Aziraphale knew deep down that he most certainly would see Crowley again. Honestly, it had only been a few weeks, Crowley probably just needed to take care of something. Soon enough, the demon would be back in his bookshop. And then they could… they could…

Well, Aziraphale isn’t quite sure what they would do when Crowley did arrive. He just knew that everything would be better when he did. They would drink, Aziraphale supposed. And dine. Both things Aziraphale did now, but ones which would be infinitely more enjoyable with his demon by his side. 

He huffed an impatient sigh. He did hope Crowley would up soon. He’d become an even sorrier excuse for an angel in his absence. And it was with that final thought of self-loathing that he finally drifted off to sleep.

\-----

Aziraphale was still asleep at three in the afternoon when he was rudely awoken by a noise. (He was still working out the internal clock thing, clearly.)

“Angel?” A voice called out. 

In an instant, he was out of bed and miracled himself down the stairs. He’d have to be dead, not tired, not to recognize that voice.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale thought vaguely he ought to be embarrassed by the childlike joy in his voice when he said Crowley’s name, but he couldn’t really be bothered. Crowley was here.

“Fuck!” Crowley stumbled back, attempted to grab a stack of books to keep his balance, but only succeeded in knocking them off. Clearly he hadn’t expected the angel to appear so suddenly, and so near. Perhaps Aziraphale had overdone it a bit by appearing right by his side.

“Oh dear, terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to startle-”

“Was that neces–,” Crowley sputtered, before cutting off abruptly, eyes drifting over Aziraphale’s rumpled clothing. “Were you... sleeping?” Crowley’s voice was strange, lilting in a way Aziraphale couldn’t quite parse out. 

“Yes, well.” He tried to straighten his clothes, suddenly felt self-conscious about his appearance—which was ridiculous, he hadn’t felt such a thing since the year 500 “You’ve always made it sound so nice, so I thought I’d give it a try.” He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly feeling a bit defensive about it. Why shouldn’t he sleep?

Crowley stared at him, and though Aziraphale can’t see his eyes behind his glasses, he could just feel them narrowing. “How long?”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“How long have you been asleep for?”

“Oh, not long ago, it can’t have been more than a few…” Aziraphale trailed off, suddenly noticing a layer of dust on his front counter that was most certainly not there when he went to bed last night. “Er… what day is it?”

“September 27,” Crowley said, then added, rather pointedly, “2019.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale, had in fact, been asleep for over two weeks. He felt a twinge of shame. He wasn’t sure how it happened, but he was absolutely sure he didn’t want Crowley to know about it. “A few days, then. One or two.” He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

Crowley looked at him a moment longer. Aziraphale mentally willed him to drop it. He really, really didn’t want to make a big deal out of this. So he’d been tired. Anyone would be, after the end of the world. There was no need to make anything of it. Thankfully, Crowley decided to be merciful. (Something he did far more often than he’s wont to admit.) 

“Adam called,” he said finally. “Said he tried to call you several times last week but couldn’t get a hold of you. So I came to check in.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale realized Crowley looked pretty worn down himself. He was dressed in his standard monochromatic black, but the clothes weren’t nearly as fashionable or flashy as he usually opted for. Was that a Gap t-shirt? 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well. I’m quite alright, my dear. But now that you’re here, can I tempt you to a glass of whiskey? I’ve got a bottle of Hillside I’ve been saving since 1970…” 

Aziraphale trailed off, suddenly wishing he hadn’t asked. He was certain, based on Crowley slight but perceptible shift in body language—the demon was leaning away, looking distinctly uncomfortable—that the demon was about to say no. 

Aziraphale felt a wave of mortification, hurt and confusion. Come to think of it, he couldn’t recall a single time in the history of the planet that Crowley had ever turned down his offer for a drink, a lunch, or anything else. He wasn’t sure he could handle it happening for the very first time right now. Not when he was still in this weird, pitiful state.

“It’s 9 in the morning, angel,” Crowly hedged, but it wasn’t an outright no. Aziraphale let out a breath he didn’t need. Hearing “angel,” roll so easily off of Crowley’s lips untied the knot in his stomach just a bit. Surely Crowley wasn’t too angry with him, if he were calling him that?

“Tea, then,” Aziraphale said, perfectly aware that he was begging. Without waiting for Crowley to respond, he whipped around and marched toward the kitchen. He prayed (though he was quite sure She was no longer listening to him) his demon would follow him. Crowley did.

“So, ah,” Aziraphale said, busying himself with the tea kettle. Crowley sat at the small table, not with his usual lounge, but gingerly, like he might get up at any moment. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since the Ritz.” 

He did hope he made the question sound casual, but judging by Crowley’s pained face, he wasn’t quite sure he managed it. 

“Had some…” Crowley paused, casting around for the words, “...stuff. Ya know. To do.”

“I see.” 

This time, Aziraphale let some of the anger and hurt he was feeling color his tone. So this was how it was going to be, was it? They just weren’t going to talk to each other anymore? Not only were they no longer to go on adventures together, they weren’t even going to tell each other about their separate adventures? They weren’t going to let each other be… known? After everything?

Aziraphale placed a steaming mug down in front of Crowley with enough force that some of the hot water splashed over the side. He was aware he might be spiraling, a bit. 

This would normally be the part where Crowley would backtrack and apologize in his own Crowley way, or at least change the subject, engage Aziraphale in a conversation he knew would make him happy, but instead, the demon just sipped his tea and said nothing. Aziraphale really couldn’t stand it. He stood.

“Do you know, I think I’ll have that whiskey after all,” he said, striding over to the cabinet to fetch the bottle and a glass. His hand automatically reached to grab a second glass—Crowley’s glass—but then he paused. “Would you like some?”

“God, yes,” Crowley made a face like he hadn’t meant to say that. Or maybe he just hadn’t meant to address to Her. Whatever the reason, Aziraphale was relieved. He had hoped things might be different in a good way after the world ended, but if he couldn’t have that, then at the very least maybe they could go back to normal. He could cope with that. Probably.

He poured them both a double, in an effort to speed the normalcy along.

\------

Eleven drinks later—nine for Aziraphale, and two for Crowley, who was drinking maddeningly slow—and the angel was slumped over onto the table. He’d never been very good at bottling his feelings up inside while sober, and while drunk he really just had no chance at all. 

“Croooowley,” Aziraphale said. Fine, whined.

“What is it, angel?” Crowley sounded more like himself now—relaxed, vaguely amused, even.

But Aziraphale couldn’t get the image out of his head of Crowley leaning away, about to say no to his invitation. He wasn’t sure why it was bothering him so much. Crowley didn’t always do everything Aziraphale asked. _Except that he sort of does_ , whispered a little voice in his ear. Aziraphale told the little voice to shut the fuck up.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried again, hopefully less whiny this time. “Why don’t you like me anymore?” Maybe still slightly whiny. 

“What?” Crowley sounded offended, which was rich coming from someone who hadn’t truly looked him in the eye all night. 

“Why don’t you-hic-like me anymore? You used to… you used…” Aziraphale struggled for the words to describe what it was Crowley used to do. Visit him? Smile at him? At least say yes to his invitation for a spot of tea, for God’s sake?

“You’re very drunk, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, not unkindly. 

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you by your name?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale was aware he was being belligerent. “It means I’m in trouble. It means you’re mad at me.”

Crowley sighed. “I’m not mad you, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded his head approvingly. “Yes. Good. ‘Angel.’ I like… I like it when you call me that… ” He trailed off, unsure.

Crowley shifted. He didn’t look so relaxed anymore, which made Aziraphale sad. 

“No no no no! Don’t... don’t be stiff n’ serious. Relaaaaaax.” Aziraphale reached across the table, pawing at Crowley’s definitely stiff limbs, trying to force him to obey his will. Crowley snatched himself out of Azirphale’s reach. 

“You’re drunk,” Crowley said, sharply this time. Aziraphale said nothing, afraid of ruining things further than he already had. Drat, drat, drat. He was so very drunk. 

“I should go.” Crowley set his glass down and stood. Aziraphale stared at his long, lean body. Sometimes he felt like Crowley went on forever. Looking at him made him feel… odd. 

Then Crowley shuddered, and Aziraphale knew he had sobered himself up for the drive home. The polite thing to do would be to sober up as well, but Aziraphale didn’t feel like it. He had a niggling feeling he might regret some of his behavior when alcohol was no longer buzzing in his system, and he was in no hurry to find out how much.

“Will I ever see you again?” Even to his own very drunk ears, Aziraphale sounded depressingly maudlin. “Or are you just going to abandon me?”

Crowley sighed again, and this time he sounded just a touch annoyed. “You know, I’m not the only one with a phone, angel. Or legs. Or the ability to magically appear wherever I wish to be.”

“So… you’re saying I should call you?”

“Well…” Crowley shifted again. “Maybe it’s best you wait for me to call you. I’m quite… quite busy right now.”

“But you will call me?” Aziraphale presses.

“Yeah, angel. I’ll call you.”

\----

Nearly a month had gone by, and Crowley still hadn’t called. 

Aziraphale felt sad at first. Then he started to feel angry. After six thousand years of—well, not friendship, not for all of it, but of acquaintance-ship, at the very least—Aziraphale should like to think he deserved better than to be—what was it that young costumed who’d become the unwitting recipient of Aziraphale’s woes called it? Ghosted.

Crowley was angry with him, that much was clear. Well, Aziraphale was angry with him right back! Aziraphale had always endeavored to tell Crowley precisely what it was he’d done wrong before he froze him out, and he should like to think the demon would extend the same courtesy to him. Crowley may have decided to end their—fraternizing—without telling Aziraphale, but there were two people in this relationship, thank you very much. Aziraphale was going to have his say, too. 

And, fine, Aziraphale may have, in looking to pass the time without Crowley, taken to reading a few self-help books about how to maintain a healthy relationship. The first one told him it was important to respect boundaries, so he threw it across the room, but the second said it was important to make an effort to engage in consistent, regular communication, which he liked much better. So he highlighted the passage, bookmarked the page, and marched himself over to Crowley’s apartment. 

What he wasn’t expecting, after he rapped on Crowley’s door with perhaps a bit more force than was strictly necessary, was to be greeted by his demon in sweatpants. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley blinked, looking slightly disoriented, as if he hadn’t seen another life form in days. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth, with every intention of launching into the strongly-worded speech he’d prepared on his walk over, but found that no sound came out. 

He couldn’t stop staring at the sweatpants. 

Not since the invention of fashion had Aziraphale seen Crowley in anything less than a devastatingly cool, decidedly intentional, and almost always all-black outfit. The raggedy grey sweatpants and wrinkled grey tee-shirt he was currently staring at were… not that. 

“You’re wearing sweatpants.”

“Yes,” Crowley said, and then, quite reasonably, waited for Aziraphale to say something less asinine. And Lord help him, Aziraphale did try. But he just couldn’t tear his eyes away from those damned sweatpants. Crowley looked… comfy. Casual. Aziraphale wouldn’t call it an unattractive look—not with the way the pants hung dangerously low on Crowley’s hips. 

Crowley tugged at his shirt, and, realizing he was being quite rude, Aziraphale swallowed and forced himself to look at Crowley’s face.

“Right. Is there a particular reason you came ’round, other than to tell me what I’m wearing?” He sounded annoyed, which in turn made Aziraphale annoyed, which finally remind him why he’d marched over here in a huff in the first place.

“You could at least invite me in,” Aziraphale sniffed, and then shoved his way into Crowley’s apartment without giving him a chance to show any of that hateful hesitation on his face. 

“Alright, fine, come in,” grumbled Crowley. Aziraphale took in Crowley’s sparse apartment, which he didn’t remember having that frankly enormous couch and entertainment system the last time he’d been here. The couch had an indent in it, and Aziraphale was suddenly certain the demon had been lounging on it moments before and possibly had been doing so for days. 

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, turning to face him. “It has come to my attention that our relationship is in need of some attention.”

“Our… relationship,” Crowley repeated, sounding strained. His eyes flicked to the book under Azirpaphale’s arm. 

“Yes. Our relationship. We’re meant to be friends,” Aziraphale began pacing around, still clutching the book, trying to remember what, exactly, it had said. “And friends… friends put forth a mutual effort to maintain their relationship. They make time for and show appreciation for one another. They communicate consistently and regularly. See?”

He opened the book to the marked page with the highlighted passage and thrust it into Crowley’s hands. 

Crowley stared at it, not moving. Then he said, devastatingly, “Are we friends?”

Aziraphale threw up his arms in a huff. “Crowley! Of course we’re friends!”

“You said we weren't,” Crowley pointed out. A bit petulantly, in Aziraphale’s opinion. 

Aziraphale stopped his pacing, and only just barely resisted the urge to stamp his foot. Why did Crowley insist on being so infuriating? Perhaps he was only saying such a hurtful thing to get back at him, Aziraphale, for saying the same hurtful thing earlier, but Aziraphale had hoped surviving the end of the world together might mean they could put all that nastiness behind them. Apparently, he’d hoped in vain.

“My dear, you know perfectly well that I only said that for fear of either our sides striking us down, so to speak, when we were under a great deal of stress re: the world coming to an end, and for you to throw that in my face now, after everything, when you know I’ve always held you in the highest regard–”

“OK, alright, yes, I get it,” Crowley cut him off looking pained. Then, softer. “I know that, OK? I know. There’s been some… stuff that I’ve been thinking about. The end of the world was a bit much, yeah? I just need to. Dunno. Process. Or whatever. I didn’t mean to disappear on you.”

Aziraphale softened immediately, hope flaring up inside him. “So you’ll do it then?”

Crowley sighed, exasperated again. “Do what, angel?” He waved the open book he was still holding. “What exactly are you saying here?”

“I’m saying,” Aziraphale faltered, suddenly stupidly nervous. “I’m saying that in order to maintain our friendship, we ought to see each other regularly. Consistently. I’m insisting on it, in fact.”

“Alright,” Crowley said slowly, carefully. “So often would you like to consistently see me, then?”

Every day, Aziraphale wanted to say. That’s what they’d been doing for the past 11 years or so, and it had been Heaven. Better than Heaven, really. Aziraphale should know. But that would sound dreadfully clingy if he said it out loud, wouldn’t it?

“Every week,” he said instead. “How about Thursdays?”

“Alright,” Crowley said again, still maddeningly slow. “Thursdays. And what, er, exactly is going to happen on Thursdays?”

“We’ll get dinner,” Aziraphale said, more decisively than he felt. “Or lunch, or coffee, or go to a show. I’ll, ah, take care of the planning, of course, since this is my idea. Seems only fair if I’m forcing you to spend time with me.”

Crowley didn’t jump in to say that it was a pleasure to spend time with Aziraphale, as Aziraphale had hoped that he might. He’d just have to try a bit harder on their outings to get back in the demon’s good books. 

“Alright,” Crowley said instead, for the third time. 

“Yes. Alright,” Azriraphale echoed. “Well, I won’t intrude on you any longer. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“What? Why?”

“Today is Wednesday, dear.”

“Oh."


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale was nervous. He drummed his fingers on the table and surveyed the interior of a new trendy restaurant he hadn’t been to before.

It was the sort of restaurant that had mismatched salt and pepper shakers on every table, but in a way that made it obvious the owners had put a great deal of thought into mismatching them. He found the whole thing massively irritating, personally. And he couldn’t for the life of him fathom what it was about the place that was prompting so many people to snap photos of the interior with their mobile phones.

He’d chosen the restaurant for his first Thursday with Crowley after he overheard a young woman in his bookshop advising a friend that this restaurant was the ideal “casual first date” spot in Central London. That was what he wanted: casual. 

Aziraphale was hoping a decidedly casual lunch spot would downplay how very not casual he was being about this whole “maintaining a friendship” thing with his demon. They were, after all, immortal beings—not some twenty-something couple who needed regular, documented date nights to prove to their other friends that they really were in love. Well, that was an odd comparison, and one Aziraphale wishes he could take back—this wasn’t a _date_ —but Aziraphale didn’t have time to think of another example, because suddenly there was Crowley, sauntering into the restaurant, which was surprisingly crowded for a Thursday afternoon. 

Crowley did a complicated maneuver to dodge a bearded man with a dog stroller—really, what was happening to London these days—before collapsing in the chair across from Aziraphale. For a split second, he sprawled as only Crowley can sprawl in a tiny wooden chair, and grinned at Aziraphale. Then, as if remembering himself, he righted himself into a more normal state. He looked uncomfortable. Aziraphale hated it.

“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. 

“’lo, angel,” Crowley said back.

Then neither of them said anything for a full 30 seconds. 

Now, thirty seconds is a very long time for no one to say anything in the kind of social situation in which you’re supposed to be pretty much constantly saying things. Horrified and desperate, Aziraphale picked up his menu, despite the fact that he had taken a look at it the night before and decided to order the poached eggs with avocado. 

“I, er, hear they do eggs quite well here. You know. Poached, scrambled. Erm. Benedict,” Good Lord, how was he this bad at making conversation? They used to be good at this, right?

Crowley made things infinitely worse by _also looking at his menu_ , something Aziraphale had not known him to do in almost all the thousands of years they’d been dining together. 

“Is that so?” 

“Yes.” They lapsed into another excruciating silence, this time stretching for closer to a minute, before Aziraphale tried again. 

“Apparently, this is London’s premiere casual first date spot.” 

“ _What_?”

Thankfully, by some divine intervention that Aziraphale would certainly never admit to, their waiter chose this moment to appear, sparing Aziraphale from having to discorporate himself. 

“What’ll it be, gentleman?”

“Two poached eggs with avocado, please, and two Bloody Marys,” Aziraphale said quickly and firmly, snatching Crowley’s menu from him before the demon could say anything. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stand it if Crowley actually _ordered_ ; it would tell him that their relationship had changed irreconcilably. Aziraphale was always the one who ordered, for both of them. Then Crowley ate two bites and gave the rest of his food to Aziraphale. That was the way things _worked._

Thankfully, the demon allowed it to happen. The waiter accepted the menus, left and it fell silent once more. Aziraphale sighed internally. It seemed this was going to be a rather long lunch. 

\------

“No no no no. Angel. No. You could _not_ be more wrong about this.”

Aziraphale was polishing off the last of Crowley’s poached eggs, as well as most of his second Bloody Mary. Normally he’d be on his fourth by now—it really did take quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol to get occult beings drunk—but Crowley hadn’t touched his first, and Aziraphale felt it impolite to outdrink one’s dining companion, no matter how obtuse one’s dining companion insisted on being. 

“My dear, forgive me, but I simply don’t see what’s so wrong about assuming the two smartest, most competent characters in the book should end up together.”

“Ron and Hermione were _meant to be together from the moment they laid eyes on each other_. For Christ’s sake, did you even read the books?!”

“Did you?” Aziraphale asked, not entirely surprised that Crowley had, but slightly surprised he had admitted it. And stone-cold sober, no less. But the demon recovered quickly.

“’Course not. Saw the films, though. And I read the fan blogs. The fans are on my side about this one, I can tell you that.”

“You read the _blogs_?”

“Oh sure, blogs are bloody fascinating, aren’t they? And full of wonderfully sinful ideas, too, thanks to me. Those fans have made the books far more interesting than musty ol’ Jo ever did.”

Aziraphale smiled to himself and sipped his drink. Crowley could be such a nerd, sometimes. Truth be told, the angel had read the books, feeling it was something of a duty to his country as an Englishman, but he hadn’t quite _got_ them. He much preferred the classics. 

But oh, how wonderful it was to simply be here arguing with Crowley. His world finally felt right again. This is what they _did_. He still couldn’t believe Crowley had tried to take that away. He would admonish the demon for his behavior at a later date, once he was one hundred percent certain things were back to normal. Which, Aziraphale assumed based on how well lunch was going, would likely be within the next week. 

Then Crowley had to go and ruin it by stretching in a way that almost always signifies taking one’s leave. 

“Probably time we get the check, eh?” The demon glanced around for the waiter. 

“But we’ve only just got here!”

Crowley just looked at him. “Aziraphale. We’ve been here for three hours. I’ve watched at least thirty people take a selfie in that mirror. Frankly, I don’t think I can take it anymore.” He pointed to a mirror that was decorated rather obnoxiously in fake flowers. Aziraphale knew that Crowley took fake plants as a personal offense. 

“Why the devil did you pick this place, anyhow?” Crowley continued. “Doesn’t really seem like your _scene_.”

Aziraphale flushed, immediately cursing the girl in his bookshop who made this blasted trendy restaurant seem like a good idea, though he knew rationally it wasn’t her fault. He couldn’t help it: Crowley hated it here, and now he was leaving early. 

“I thought we might try something new,” he said lamely. Then, with a new thought, he brightened. “But you’re right, it’s awful here. Let’s go finish our drinks back at the bookshop.”

He deliberately didn’t frame it as a question, nor did he comment on the fact that Crowley still hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. He would force things to be normal between them. He _would._

“Better not,” Crowley said. That damn stubborn demon. “And, ah, actually, I’ve got somewhere to be.”

He hopped up with alarming agility and whipped out his wallet. Aziraphale sighed, his previous happiness now completely gone. He was feeling very alone all of a sudden.

“’M outta cash, but I’ll Venmo you for the meal, OK?”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, who hadn’t the slightest idea what a benmo was. “I’ll see you next Thursday?”

Crowley, who a second ago had been all manic energy, paused. 

“Yeah, angel. See you next Thursday.”

And with that, he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

For their next outing, Aziraphale was determined not to repeat the mistake he made with the brunch spot. He chose an activity he knew for a fact that both he, and more importantly, Crowley would enjoy: The Edvard Munch exhibit at the British Museum.

The exhibit was closing soon, and Aziraphale knew Crowley would be upset if he missed it, even if he’d never admit to it. The name of the exhibit— “[love and angst](https://www.google.com/url?q=https://blog.britishmuseum.org/whats-on-at-the-british-museum-in-2019/&sa=D&ust=1579582553600000)”—did make Aziraphale’s skin a bit prickly, but as there was no rational explanation as to why, he dismissed the uneasy feeling as one of those many pointless human body oddities Aziraphale had experienced but not understood over the years. Having expressionist paintings to look at should save them from any more excruciating silences, at the very least.

Crowley arrived 20 minutes after their agreed-upon meeting time, which, for him, was early. So Aziraphale was startled when a demon-shaped shadow appeared over the book he had been enjoying, seated comfortably on a lobby bench.

“Alright, angel, let’s get this over with,” Crowley said, sticking his hands in his pockets, looking uncomfortable.

Aziraphale sighed internally. Apparently Crowley was going to make this difficult for him. Again. Well, Aziraphale never did say no to a challenge.

Thirty minutes later, Crowley seemed to have forgotten he was supposed to be trying to make things difficult for Aziraphale. The angel let the demon roam the exhibit on his own, staying a few steps behind, figuring that once Crowley got absorbed in the art like he always did, he’d forget whatever ridiculous notions of keeping his distance he’d been holding onto to. And, Aziraphale thought to himself smugly, he was absolutely right.

“Oh, now, _here_ _’s_ a good one,” Crowley crowed, loudly enough that some of the stuffy-looking patrons gave him dirty looks that Crowley completely ignored. “Come on, angel, have a look.”

He dragged Aziraphale in front of a painting depicting a woman sprawled out on a bed, one breast hanging out of her shirt, surrounded by half-drunken glasses of whiskey. It was the very portrait of debauchery, yet somehow Aziraphale felt it was not obscene, but peaceful. Loving, almost. It had something to do with the woman’s serene expression and the careful, tender brush strokes with which Munch [had painted her](https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.edvardmunch.org/the-day-after.jsp&sa=D&ust=1579582553601000).

“Oh, yes, that is lovely,” Aziraphale sighed.

“ _Lovely_? That’s not a lovely, painting, angel, that’s _sinful_. Sex. Indulgence. All that tomfoolery.”

“‘Tomfoolery?’ Really?”

“Oh, shut it, you know what I mean," Crowley said. "Ol’ Ed had himself a sin-filled rager the night before, enjoyed his spoils, then painted the remnants of the morning after. That’s inspired, sure, but it’s not _lovely_.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” Aziraphale said, privately pleased. Charmed, really. He loved to listen to Crowley analyze art, something the demon was clearly passionate about. Aziraphale gently turned Crowley to the work he’d been inspecting: Two widows sitting side-by-side, gazing out their window. He thought it rather gorgeous, though achingly sad.

“Gloomy,” Crowley declared. “Depressing. Boring. Next?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly and steered them both toward another.

“And this?” Aziraphale asked. “An accurate depiction, do you think?”

Crowley studied it—a man surrounded by flames, his face obscured by red paint in a most unsettling manner, titled “Self-Portrait in Hell,”—and scoffed.

“Not even close. There’s far more paperwork. Humans always get so caught up in the flaming bits of hell—there are things more torturous than fire, you know.” Crowley made a face as he said those words, and quickly hurried Aziraphale to another painting.

Aziraphale recognized it right away, of course, given that it was one of the most recognizable paintings in human history. Strangely, Aziraphale realized, none of the other museum patrons currently seemed interested in this supremely famous work, despite the fact that there had been several dozen people crowded around it just moments ago.

Aziraphale shot a disapproving look at Crowley, who shrugged unrepentantly back at him.

“Oh c’mon, angel, we’d never get a proper look otherwise. Just take the gift of five uninterrupted minutes with ‘The Scream’ and enjoy it.”

The angel sighed but did as he was bid, stepping up to examine the striking, swirling, anxiety-inducing brush strokes more carefully. He’d never admit it, but it truly was a lovely gift to look at the painting in peace—tourist culture had ruined art appreciation, in his opinion. Crowley stepped up beside him. Both beings observed the famed painting in silence for well over a minute.

“How terrible it must have been,” Aziraphale said eventually, “to have felt so alone in his terror.”

“Ohhh, I don’t know.” Crowley kept his eyes fixed to the painting, and spoke with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Seems to me it’s more about insanity than terror.”

He pointed to the fence behind the screaming figure, and Aziraphale suppressed a smile. Crowley did love analyzing art, once you got him going.

“There’s a freedom in letting go, giving in to the insanity—no longer held back by ‘the fence,’ AKA the rules of society.” Crowley pointed to the two cloaked figures in the distance. “Unlike these unlucky bastards, stuck in the dreary humdrum of everyday life. You’re spot on about the loneliness, though—insanity is an isolating business.”

He smiled wryly and gestured toward the painting’s protagonist. “Gotta admit, I feel for the guy in that regard.”

Aziraphale felt something funny flutter in his chest and found himself unable to take his eyes off of Crowley. It had been truly horrible this last month not to have his demon’s constant companionship, and yet less than an hour in Crowley’s presence had banished Aziraphale’s ennui almost completely. It was, truth be told, a rather alarming discovery. He clearly cared for Crowley much more deeply than he had ever realized. He’d probably be willing to do almost anything to keep him by his side. Good lord, he had gone softer than he’d ever dreamed capable.

It was with these tender thoughts swirling in his head that he found himself saying, to his great embarrassment, “Good thing we’ll always have each other to be insane with, then.” 

Crowley turned to cast Aziraphale a suspicious look, and Aziraphale didn’t exactly blame him. They simply didn’t say things like that to each other.

But maybe a bit of tenderness was what they needed. Maybe if he were just honest with Crowley about how intensely he desired his company, the demon would agree to return to his life on a daily basis. Maybe, just maybe, the demon missed Aziraphale too.

Aziraphale knew his face was likely doing something soppy. He never really was any good at hiding his emotions. Maybe he wouldn’t even have to say anything at all. Now there was a pleasant thought! Maybe Crowley could look at him and just _get_ it, no verbal communication necessary, and they could go back to being codependent best friends again. But Crowley’s eyes, fixed upon Aziraphale’s vulnerable face, were narrowing not just in suspicion, but in panic.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Crowley took a step back from Aziraphale. Whatever miracle he’d been using to keep back the tourists broke, and a crowd gathered around ‘The Scream,’ in seconds, with little to no regard for Crowley or Aziraphale's personal space.

“You’re not supposed to look at me like that.”

Crowley backed further away, bumping into several people without apologizing, eyeing the nearest exit sign. He was retreating, yet again. Fuck.

“My dear-” Aziraphale began, though he had no idea what to say to make this right again. Perhaps it was best that Crowley interrupted.

“I, ah. Gotta go. Urgent matters. Yeah.”

He all but sprinted toward the exit and nearly made it before Aziraphale had the presence of mind to call out:

“Wait!”

Crowley paused.

“See you next Thursday?” Aziraphale asked desperately.

Crowley hesitated but then nodded, once.

“Next Thursday.”

\-----

OK, so, Aziraphale may have messed up. He may have, perhaps, fucked up, even. Fuck.

Obviously he had overwhelmed Crowley at the museum by becoming the one thing he hadn’t wanted to become: Clingy. Truth be told, he’d been a bit bowled over by revelation of how very deeply he’d cared for Crowley. For a moment there, he had thought it might have been a welcome sense of clarity that they both needed to get their friendship back on track.

But Crowley had made it very clear he was not interested in any grandiose declarations, and Aziraphale couldn’t say he blamed him. The goal here, Aziraphale reminded himself yet again, was normalcy. Swearing their undying devotion to each other was hardly the modus operandi for the angel and the demon, even near the end of days. Clearly, Crowley had been rattled by how close Aziraphale had come at the exhibit to breaking the norm.

Perhaps he was already breaking the norm by forcing Crowley on these dates, as Aziraphale had unfortunately taken to calling them in his head. After all, they’d never really had to schedule their social time in the past. Crowley just sort of showed up whenever he wanted to chat with Aziraphale, which, now that Aziraphale thought about it, used to happen quite frequently. But he hardly ever called first. Unless he had tickets for them to a show. Or wanted to make a reservation at a particularly hard-to-get restaurant. The point was, perhaps he ought to leave Crowley be. He was only making the demon feel uncomfortable with his weird, structured outings.

But he’d already tried that, and he hadn’t heard from Crowley for weeks. No, he had to make these dates the new normal. And Aziraphale could do normal. He _could_. He would show Crowley that he was fun to be around, he wouldn’t be weird about it, Crowley would have a great time, and then they would be normal best friends again, who saw each other regularly, which is a thing best friends do. The second self-help book he read said so.

The only problem was, he wasn’t sure what he and Crowley do that would be fun besides drinking. Crowley hadn’t seemed very interested in lately, so he tracked down that woman he’d heard talking about the casual first date spot, discovered that her name was Suri, and asked her advice for date ideas that were both casual and fun that didn’t necessarily involve drinking, but _could_ involve drinking, should Aziraphale need to drown his sorrows. To his surprise, Suri actually had an answer to this very specific request.

That’s how he and Crowley ended up at a “Wine and Painting” class that Thursday. Aziraphale didn’t fully understand why the “wine” portion was in the title of the class—it appeared, for all intents and purposes, to just be a regular painting class where wine was served—but he had to admit, even if Crowley wasn’t interested in alcohol at the moment, its presence more than sweetened the deal for Aziraphale. He hoped, given the demon’s eye for art, Crowley might enjoy the painting part, too. Aziraphale was excited to try it too, having never really dabbled in the art himself.

The painting at the front of the class was a white flower on a blue background that seemed like it would be simple enough to paint, but, distressingly, it turned out Aziraphale was completely rubbish at painting. He could visualize in perfectly in his mind what he wanted his hand holding the paintbrush to do, but he couldn’t for the life of him make his hand follow through on those actions. Which was ridiculous, because God had crafted this body for him, personally. Aziraphale had just assumed it was perfect. And fine, maybe he did perform some frivolous miracles here and there when it came to, say, mending tears in his clothing and other tasks that required fine motor skills, but he always thought he could do these things the human way if he wanted to. Apparently not. It was extremely aggravating.

Aziraphale huffed in frustration as his brush made yet another terribly wrong stroke. He pushed his hair out of his face, took a healthy swig of wine—which was a much nicer blend than everyone else in the class was drinking—glanced around to make sure all the other attendees were absorbed in their own painting, and then discreetly miracled his canvas clean again to start over.

“Why don’t you just miracle the whole painting on?” Crowley muttered to him.

“Because that,” Aziraphale sniffed, “would be _cheating_.”

“Oh, c’mon. How is what you just did not cheating?” Crowley demanded.

“The instructor said we could start over with a new canvas if we so desired. I’m merely taking care to not waste supplies.”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure no one else here has started over with a new canvas 17 times,” Crowley said.

“Oh, why don’t you pay attention to your own painting, you dreadful demon,” Aziraphale said, but his words had no bite to them. “What exactly is it you’re painting again?”

He glanced over at Crowley’s easel, where the demon was painting something utterly different than the suggested prompt. It looked suspiciously like an abstract rendering of the fiery pits of Hell.

“Oh, just a little something from memory.” Crowley grinned, adding a few bright red flourishes.

The demon was in a good mood today, which meant, no matter how frustrating Aziraphale found his lack of artistic skills to be, this date was shaping up to be a rousing success. Aziraphale allowed himself a small, satisfied smile at the thought.

“Well, at least we won’t be able to compare who’s the worse painter this way.” Aziraphale was more grateful for that than he cared to let; he was terribly competitive, and it was a fault he didn’t like to advertise.

“Oh,” Crowley said, offhand. “I already painted that boring old flower. In the first ten minutes of class, actually.”

He gestured to a finished canvas leaning against his easel: A near-perfect recreation of the painting at the front of the class. 

Aziraphale gaped. “Well- obviously you cheated-”

“No-ope!” Crowley said cheerfully. “I’m just that good with my hands.” He waggled his fingers suggestively, making Aziraphale stomach swoop strangely.

“But- that’s-” Aziraphale sputtered. “ _How_?”

Crowley chuckled. “Spent a few years hanging around Leo and he showed me the ropes. Haven’t done this in a couple hundred years, though. Forgot how fun it was. Thanks for the reminder, angel.”

And the smile Crowley gave him when he said that was so tender and genuine, it instantly erased every iota of frustration that came with being worse than something than Crowley. In its place, the poor angel’s heart swelled with those same alarmingly intense tender feelings he’d felt watching the demon rhapsodize about art at the museum. But, remembering his vow at the beginning of the date, this time Aziraphale forced those tender feelings back down where they came from.

“Well, I envy your skill. I just can’t seem to— _drat_.” Another bad brush stroke. But he was grateful for the distraction. He focused all of his attention away from his demon, and back at his newly-ruined canvas. Surely if he concentrated, he could become good at this. He was an ethereal being, for goodness’ sake.

“Here, here, you’re holding it all wrong.” And then suddenly Crowley was _there_ , coming up behind Aziraphale, covering Aziraphale’s hand with his own.

“You’re holding it like a pen.” He gently loosened Aziraphale’s tight grip on the brush with one hand. “That’s alright for finer details, but this is big picture stuff, angel.”

Crowley reached his other arm around Aziraphale to shift the brush down while using his other hand to shift Aziraphale’s grip up. In this position, Crowley was practically hugging his back. Aziraphale couldn’t ever recall them being this close before. He focused on taking measured breaths through his nose. A few accidental brushes of skin over the millenniums, sure. But a hug? Never.

“Hold it like a conductor of an orchestra holds a baton,” Crowley's breath tickled Azirphale’s ear as he spoke, and Aziraphale suppressed a shiver. “I know your lots’ all gung-ho for coloring inside the lines, but the real good artists don’t worry about that crap.” 

Crowley’s voice was so soft and so low, Aziraphale doubted anyone else in the class could hear it. To him, it sounded like the demon was shouting. Yet at the same time, he was having trouble processing the actual words Crowley was saying. Strange.

“Don’t try to perfectly recreate every brush stroke in the example,” Crowley was saying. “Capture the feeling of the flower. Your _impression_ of it. Get it? Impression?”

He squeezed the angel round the middle with both arms to emphasize his point, and this time, Aziraphale didn’t manage to suppress a highly undignified squeak.

“I’m perfectly aware of the definition of impressionism, thank you,” Aziraphale tried to snip, but it came out more like a weak mumble. “And I’ll have you stop manhandling me in public, please.”

He pushed Crowley’s hands off of him with perhaps more force than was necessary, considering the demon went easily and immediately.

“Alright, alright, don’t get your halo twisted. I was only trying to help,” Crowley said, sidling back to his own easel good-naturedly. “’Cus no offense angel, but you really need it.”

He grinned at Aziraphale again, and Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling back, despite the fact that his body was still tingling in all the places where Crowley’s touch had been moments ago. He felt very, very strange. He set that feeling aside to be examined at a later date. He had to focus on getting things back to normal with Crowley.

“I’m glad you’re having fun, at least,” Aziraphale said honestly. “And not in such a hurry to run off, for once.”

Crowley’s grin faded slightly, and he turned back to his own canvas, resuming work on his hellfire rendition.

“Ah, yeah. Like I said, end of the world and all that... messed with my head a bit. I was sorting some stuff out.” Crowley drew a loud, bright red X on his canvas. “Processing. Whatever. But it’s all sorted now. All good. Sorry about the disappearing acts.”

“You’re OK with this, then?” Aziraphale asked.

“With demonstrating my superior artistic skills, and proving there are a few things I’m better at than you? Absolutely.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “With these d- meetings. Meet-ups. Or what have you. It’s not, ah, weird for you?”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Sure. Yeah, no, the meetings. S’great. Not weird.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, more than a little relieved. He smiled. “Good. I was worried.”

Crowley looked pained and then said, slightly louder than necessary, “Nope, not weird at all. Love it, actually. Matter of fact,” he put down his paintbrush and turned his full attention on Aziraphale, “Why don’t you let me plan the next one?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale was caught off guard, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t pleased. “I mean, I wouldn’t want you to trouble yourself…”

“I want to,” Crowley said firmly. “It’s settled. I’ll plan us a fun-filled activity for next Thursday.”

“Well, alright then,” Aziraphale said, returning to his painting with a smile on his face, which quickly faded when he made yet another wildly erroneous brush stroke. Crowley snorted.

“I’ll be sure to pick something with less hand-eye coordination involved.”

“Oh, shut up.” Aziraphale smiled. It seemed these dates were turning out to be a great idea after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Being in love with Aziraphale had been painful these last few millennia, but bearable. In the past, Crowley had pushed the angel because he never thought Aziraphale would actually leave, and he assumed he could handle it if he had. But then the angel had gone and died in a fire, or so Crowley had thought, and the pain had been… alarming. Unbearable, actually. It felt worse than dying, worse than torture, and it was something he never, ever wanted to feel again, this feeling that Aziraphale had left him for good.

More than that, though, it had awoken a fierce, protective love toward the angel—much more intense than the love he’d felt before. It was kind of love that would scare Aziraphale, Crowley was certain of it. He knew how his angel was. 

So Crowley started being careful. He stopped drinking in front of Aziraphale. He had decided, after sharing one perfect meal at The Ritz, to back off. Stop tempting, stop forcing the angel to spend time with him. He had missed him, of course, but Aziraphale was still there, still speaking to him, still taking his calls, and that was enough, it had to be. But now Aziraphale wanted to have _regular dates,_ and Crowley would be lying if he said he wasn’t reveling in the angel’s company.

It wasn’t fair, really, how well the two of them just worked, how easily they fit together, how freely the conversation flowed. Aziraphale was always the person Crowley wanted to spend time with, more than anyone else he’d ever met in this entire goddamn universe. Thursdays very quickly became his favorite fucking day of the week. He found himself growing embarrassingly excited the closer Thursday got, and in a piss-shit mood the further it was away. Fridays were the fucking worst. 

Slowly, Crowley started to let his guard down again. He still didn’t want to get drunk in front of the angel—God knows what he might have said if he did—but, hey, is Aziraphale wanted to _work on their friendship_ , then who has he, Crowley, to get in his way

Then, at the museum, standing in the middle of that goddamn Munch exhibit, Aziraphale had looked at him like he’d hung the stars. (Which, to be fair, he _had_ , but the point was Aziraphale had never looked at him like that before.) He’d said they’d—what was it? Oh, yeah—“always have each other.”

Which. Well. Crowley certainly intended to stay at his angel’s side to the end of the universe, but he’d never really considered the angel might do the same for him, too. 

Crowley had gone home, had a 12-hour panic attack, and he thought about that look. He thought about tartan thermoses and trembling hands clutching bags of books. He thought about Aziraphale admitting, through his drunken haze, that he liked it when Crowley called him _angel_. He thought that maybe, just maybe, his love wouldn’t scare Aziraphale after all. 

Admittedly, maybe he’d gotten a little carried away with the whole “teach Aziraphale how to paint” schtick. Maybe after his panic attack, he’d watched a few romantic comedies, and maybe he’d been inspired by his favorite, _Imagine Me & You. _ So what? It’d worked for Luce, hadn’t it? Crowley had been curious, is all. Is he to blame for merely exploring his options after Aziraphale made bedroom eyes at him in a public place, for God’s sake? (He quickly sent a follow-up thought to God to _not answer that_ , should she happen to be listening in.)

The problem was, though Crowley had been overwhelmed by the intoxicating presence of Aziraphale’s body so close to his, he wasn’t sure what to make of the angel’s response. Had Aziraphale clammed up because he, too, was affected? Or had he made his friend uncomfortable with a lecherous advance?

The latter option made Crowley feel slightly sick. Not only would he never want to make Aziraphale feel that way, but he also wasn’t entirely sure if Aziraphale would forgive him if he did. His angel was far less kind and forgiving than people gave him credit for, when it came to the things that really mattered. It was one of the reasons Crowley loved him. 

It was with this sobering thought that Crowley resolved not to push Aziraphale even an inch further, should the angel give any indication whatsoever that he was uncomfortable with Crowley’s romantic advances.

Yes, he had to be sure. He was determined to plan a date that kinda-sorta-probably looked like a romantic date, but could also plausibly be laughed off if Crowley was reading these signs all wrong, and needed to give his an angel an easy out. 

Come to think of it, as Crowley thought back on the lunch and museum and “wine painting” class—and that last one Crowley could barely think about without snorting, because he loved humans dearly, but these ones really did think they had invented drinking wine and painting, as if that hadn’t been a common pastime for literal centuries _—_ pretty much all of the dates so far fit the kinda-sorta-probably date parameters. 

Damn, his angel was good.

\---

It was Wednesday, and Aziraphale had been on edge all week. He jumped at every tinkle of his door bell, slammed receipts into customer’s books with unusual force, and, he was ashamed to say, been quite rude to poor Suri when she’d asked how the wine-and-paint date had gone. (It was a conversation that doesn’t bear repeating, but let’s just Suri went home to her wife in a state about her out-of-date jewelry. It was fine, Aziraphale made sure found a forgotten-about wad of cash in her winter jacket that evening, which she used the next week to buy much more stylish earrings. So win-win, really.)

The thing was, Aziraphale’s clothes felt too tight. His skin itched. His pulse thrummed. He swallowed far too many times a day for a being who didn’t technically need to salivate, and his index finger was constantly tapping on the nearest surface. He fidgeted and fidgeted, fixing his bowtie and adjusting his vest, but nothing seemed to relieve whatever it was that was building inside him. For one wild moment, he’d considered going to a doctor to find out what was wrong with him, before he remembered he probably ought not to let any human medical professional get their hands on his ethereal body.

He just could not get the feeling of Crowley’s long limbs encasing his in that damned amateur paint studio out of his head. It was like the demon’s skin had left permanent burns, only, it didn’t feel bad, exactly. It just felt… _something_. And Aziraphale was very, very aware of that something. To be honest, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand to be aware of it.

It was the middle of the night, and the angel was pacing up and down in his bedroom, fretfully running his hands through his hair. He didn’t know what to _do_. His brain replayed the moment over and over: Crowley, hugging him from behind, his torso practically pressed up against Aziraphale’s back. Crowley’s voice, so soft and sweet in his ear, his warm breath tickling Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“Drat, drat, drat,” Aziraphale muttered. His breath was coming shorter and faster. He had a sinking feeling that he knew what his body wanted from him. He just hadn’t wanted it to come to this.

Aziraphale really didn’t do this type of thing very often. He had, yes, mostly out of curiosity, boredom, and once because Crowley had taken him to a party in New York City in the ‘80s and the aroma of lust-love in the air had been overwhelming. (Crowley had worn tight leather pants and a mesh tank top that night, but that certainly had nothing to do with it.)

The point was, Aziraphale didn’t really like to do it. It felt primitive and human and frankly, beneath him. He was an angel, after all, while God knew he liked to indulge in his little sins here and there, he somehow felt She might be a bit more disappointed in him for this one. But it was Wednesday, he was seeing Crowley tomorrow, and if he didn’t do something about this problem _right this very instant_ , he felt like he might bust. And so, with a deep breath to steady himself, Aziraphale made an effort.

The effect was so immediate and overwhelming that Aziraphale had to clap a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from crying out. He knew right away he had been right. This was what his body wanted, alright. He was unbearably, unreasonably hard, and straining against his pants in a way that was most uncomfortable. He fumbled to undo his pants as quickly as he could gasping a sigh of relief as soon as he was free.

Tentatively, almost afraid of how much he wanted it, he put a hand to his cock, and this time wasn’t able to stop himself from moaning aloud _. God_ , and it was blasphemy in his head, but he didn’t have the presence of mind to apologize to Her or to think about anything other than how fucking fantastic his hand felt slowly rubbing his cock. Why hadn’t he done this sooner? This was exactly what he needed, ever since Crowley- ever since Crowley...

Oh, Lord, Crowley. The thought of the demon made his cock twitch, and his hand stuttered. Crowley, with his fiery red hair and his golden eyes and his long firm hands which had gently caressed his own mere days ago.Fuck, fuck. Aziraphale was picking up the pace now, and better it felt, the more his fantasy spiraled beyond his conscious control. Without his permission, his mind re-imagined the paint studio scene, only this time, Crowley’s hands drifted away from Aziraphale’s arms to his chest and snaked down his abdomen where they grabbed his– _oh_.

His movements frantic now, and his thoughts more and more incoherent. This was going to be over far too quickly, but in Aziraphale’s defense, it had been a few decades. He saw Crowley’s hands working his cock, Crowley lips sucking his suck, Crowley’s hips pressed into his, where he could feel the demon’s own cock pressing insistently against his backside–

“ _Fuck,_ ” Aziraphale bit out, and came, hard, fast and punishing. It felt like nothing he’d ever felt before, and for a moment, the angel felt nothing but pure relief, finally, after his week of suffering. 

But that was short-lived.

What had he done? He was supposed to be getting back to normal with Crowley, and this was the furthest thing from normal he could have possibly come up with. He had never, _never_ fantasized about Crowley in that way. Maybe, _maybe_ , he had idly found the demon _objectively_ attractive, as anyone with eyes would, but he’d never thought about the demon’s hands on him like that, or the demon’s– well– 

When Aziraphale realized his cock was twitching with interest again, he swiftly vanished his effort, red-faced with embarrassment. Goodness, what on earth had come over him? How was he possibly supposed to face Crowley now? He could never look his friend in the eye again, much less join him on whatever fun-filled activity Crowley had planned for them tomorrow. Surely the demon would be disgusted with him if he’d known what he’d done—Aziraphale knew Crowley cared for human fluids even less than Aziraphale did. 

Perhaps he could call in sick? Aziraphale knew that was a thing humans did when they wanted to avoid an awkward social situation, but given that he hadn’t so much as contracted a cold in the 6,000 years he’d been on earth, he had a feeling Crowley might not buy it. 

He’d simply have to go on the date, avoid touching Crowley at all costs, and force his body to behave. Hopefully, with enough distance from the Painting Incident, Aziraphale would forget all about this—anomaly, so to speak—in his behavior. He and Crowley could go back to being normal immortal best friends who were together for eternity and definitely did not masturbate to the thought of one jerking the other off. 

Right. He could do this. He hoped.


	5. Chapter 5

Aziraphale was lying in bed. Again. He knew he ought to get up, straighten out his waistcoat, and go downstairs. Crowley was due to pick him up any minute. The demon had been very mysterious on the phone about their date, saying only that he would pick Aziraphale up at noon, and to “wear something that you could stand to get a little dirty.” That applied to precisely none of the clothes Aziraphale owned, so he just wore the same suit as always, and resigned himself to miracling away whatever dirt he might come into contact with on the outing. What was Crowley planning?

Last week, Aziraphale would have been giddy with excitement at the prospect of going on an adventure with Crowley. The demon finally seemed ready to welcome Aziraphale back into his life, and Aziraphale was thrilled—he really was—but he was also dreading this date with his whole heart. 

The thing was, Aziraphale wasn’t stupid. Well, OK, maybe he _was_ stupid, or he _had been_ stupid, but now that he wasn’t quite _as_ stupid, he rather wished he could return to his previous stupidity. 

Aziraphale had… feelings for Crowley. Feelings that were more than just friendship. Romantic feelings. Sexual feelings. Soft, fond, mushy, overwhelmingly tender feelings. It was terribly embarrassing. This simply wasn’t how he and Crowley _did_ things. Feelings, sex, romance—those were things for the humans, not for them. 

_But_ , a little voice whispered in Aziraphale’s ear—and, again, it sounded painfully familiar— _hadn’t he and Crowley been assimilating to the human lifestyle all these years?_ Was this not merely the next step?

It was quite a big step, though, wasn’t it? Aziraphale had only recently come to terms with the fact that his allegiance to Crowley was stronger than his allegiance to Heaven. Right now, he wanted to get back to a place of friendship with Crowley, which was a place that had taken him a very long time to get to in the first place. Still, it had been going quite well, if Aziraphale did say so himself… until he had to go and mess everything up with these newfound _feelings_. 

Aziraphale groaned and rolled to his side. He remembered being in a similar position just a few months ago, feeling sorry for himself because Crowley had been avoiding him. Why did his traitorous heart have to reveal itself now, when Crowley had finally started speaking to him regularly again?

He considered, very briefly, telling Crowley how he felt. Then he imagined how he, Aziraphale, might have felt had Crowley confessed to having romantic feelings toward Aziraphale even just a month again. Aziraphale had to admit, he wasn’t sure past-Aziraphale would have taken to such a confession graciously. Obvious as his feelings may seem to him now, Aziraphale knew he would have been shocked, confused, and very likely had the urge to retreat. That was the last thing he wanted from Crowley right now. Aziraphale had no reason to assume Crowley suddenly felt differently about their 6,000-year-old relationship just because he did.

His pity party was interrupted by a rude noise that Aziraphale recognized immediately as the honk of the Bentley’s horn. Normally, he quite liked the sound—and he was finally starting to understand why he’d always been so happy to hear the noise that meant his demon was nearby—but today it sent a spike of fear through his corporation. 

Oh, god, would Crowley be able to tell? Or—and at this thought Aziraphale’s palms began to sweat—did he perhaps know already? It was beginning to dawn on Aziraphale that perhaps forcing one’s friends onto dates wasn’t exactly _en vogue_ among male companions these days. 

The Bentley honked again, this time a much longer, more insistent honk than the first.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” Aziraphale muttered, standing and wiping his damp palms on his pants. He did hope Crowley hadn’t planned anything too traditionally date-like. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle that in his state. Still, he knew if he made Crowley wait any longer, the demon would come upstairs to investigate what was taking so long, and he knew for certain he couldn’t handle seeing Crowley in his bedroom right now. 

He stepped out onto the SoHo street and made his way over to the Bentley, which Crowley had parked in the most obnoxiously illegal manner possible. The demon himself was out of the car, leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, and looking perfectly put together, as always. 

Aziraphale—who had not been prepared for just how viscerally his body would react to seeing Crowley in the flesh for the first time since picturing him while, well, _you know_ —stumbled. Crowley made an aborted movement as if to catch Aziraphale, before thinking better of it. 

“Alright, angel?” he asked. “Took you long enough to get down here.”

“Ah, yes, quite,” said Aziraphale. “Just, erm, napping.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Been doing that a lot recently, have you?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted, and left it at that. Thankfully, Crowley did, too.

The ride was quiet. Crowley didn’t seem to be in a hurry today—he was only doing 80 mph—though he did inhale as if to speak several times, before letting out his breath in a frustrated huff. Normally, Aziraphale would have encouraged him, but today he was too afraid of what either he or Crowley might say. Eventually Crowley jerkily flicked on the stereo, and Freddie Mercury’s rendition of _Wasteland, Baby!_ filled the car.

Aziraphale gazed out his window and watched the cityscape give way to the countryside. He was beginning to wonder just how far away this outing was. He was about to open his mouth to ask when Crowley abruptly turned the car into an unremarkable, unpaved driveway. 

Aziraphale squinted at the sign. “Maynard House Orchards?” For half a second, Aziraphale didn’t get it. Then he did. “Crowley… are you taking me _apple-picking_?”

For the first time in a while, Crowley smiled. It was a slightly tentative smile, but a smile nonetheless. “For old times’ sake, angel.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help it: He burst out laughing. Crowley’s hesitant smile broke into a full-blown grin.

“My dear boy, this is just absurd.”

“What?” Crowley said innocently. “Didn’t you get the memo? It’s not a sin anymore. God’s reserving that classification for far worse things these days, like smoking marijuana and masturbating.”

At that Aziraphale abruptly stopped laughing, but thankfully, Crowley was busy trying to maneuver his precious Bentley down the treacherous dirt path, and didn’t seem to notice. 

“Thank god the humans invented pavement,” Crowley grumbled, as he persuaded the Bentley to squeeze into parking space between a pickup truck and a minivan that was absolutely too small for it. “This is terrible.”

“It does look dreadfully muddy out there,” Aziraphale said, eyeing a particularly large puddle right outside his passenger door with trepidation. Just as he did, it became a luscious patch of soft and not-at-all-muddy-looking grass. “Oh! Thank you, my dear.”

Aziraphale beamed at Crowley. Crowley blinked and looked away. “Sure, angel,” he said. “C’mon. This will be fun.”

\---

It _was_ fun. Aziraphale was relieved to find there were plenty of other people milling around the orchard, which saved him from the terrifying prospect of being alone with Crowley and his newly-realized feelings swirling around in his brain. It _did_ seem that rather a lot of those people were couples on apple-picking dates. Aziraphale pushed that uncomfortable thought out of his mind. Best not to linger on thoughts of dating and romance, especially not when Crowley offered his arm to steady Aziraphale as he gingerly navigated the uneven ground.

Crowley insisted on picking only the very best-looking apples and had more than one disparaging thing to say about the sorry state of the trees. Aziraphale, by contrast, was drawn to the odd, lumpy, and overripe apples. They didn’t look a bit appetizing, but he just couldn’t bear to leave them hanging on the tree, unwanted and dejected. He wanted them to know someone loved them. 

Crowley rolled his eyes when Aziraphale explained this to him. But when he thought Aziraphale had looked away, the angel saw Crowly shoot him a look so tender, Aziraphale felt the back of his neck begin to heat. _Stop that_ , he told his corporation firmly. _Normal._

When the clear plastic bags they’d been given were filled to almost to the brim with apples—and Aziraphale had every intention of donating most of them to their local food bank when they got back to London—Crowley steered them toward the quaint little orchard store. Aziraphale had been eyeing the store surreptitiously throughout the day, which promised to be full of the kind of useless knick-knacks that Crowley hated, and Aziraphale loved. He was also fairly certain he’d seen a sign about donuts.  
  
Aziraphale had thought he was being surreptitious, at least. The knowing look on Crowley’s face seemed to suggest otherwise. 

“Yes, yes, go on,” Crowley said, amused. “I hear the apple cider doughnuts are to die for.”

“Oh! Well,” said Aziraphale happily. “If you insist.”

Once in the shop, Aziraphale asked the vendor for two doughnuts, handed one to Crowley, who took a bite and then handed the rest of it back to Aziraphale, who ate it happily. It really did seem things were finally back to normal. 

Aziraphale silently repeated this fact sternly to his traitorous heart, which had skipped a beat when Crowley—growing impatient with Aziraphale’s dithering over whether to purchase a delicious-looking caramel apple kit at the register—whipped out his credit card and purchased it for him. Just because Crowley was paying for things didn’t make this a _date_ -date. Crowley always paid for things. There was absolutely no reason for the angel’s heart to be pounding right now. (No, literally, there wasn’t a single reason. It’s not like he needed the blood.)

It was a good thing, Aziraphale told himself, that this definitely-not-a-date was nearing its end. If it went on any longer, he was sure to say something foolish that would muck up this wonderful normalcy. Despite that, he couldn’t help feeling sad that he was about to say goodbye to Crowley soon. It really had been a wonderful day. 

He was confused, then, when he exited the shop and turned toward the patch of grass where the Bentley was parked, that Crowley instead turned in the opposite direction. 

“Where ya going, angel?”

“To the car?”

“Ah, but the day’s not over yet.”

“It’s not?”

Aziraphale was lost. Did Crowley want to pick more apples? They already had enough for a half a dozen apple pies, at least. 

“No. I, uh,” Crowley faltered, tried to say something, then seemed to change his mind. Aziraphale's curiosity piqued. Why was Crowley so nervous? Something about the demon’s demeanor made his stomach lurch in anticipation. Had he been obvious about his feelings, despite his efforts?

“I sort of have another, erm… thing planned,” Crowley said, finally. “A part two, of sorts.”

“Part two,” Aziraphale repeated. Crowley was making him nervous, but it was the good kind of nervous. It was the kind of nervous Aziraphale had felt when Crowley had first suggested the Arrangement, when Aziraphale had first invited Crowley to dine with him, and when an angel laid eyes on the demon for the very first time. That kind of nervous. “Well, dear boy, then, by all means—lead the way to part two.”

Crowley led them down a little path off of the orchard that Aziraphale hadn’t noticed before, that wound into the surrounding woods. It was one of those paths that wasn’t really for human use, more likely beaten down by deer and other passing animals, and perhaps the occasional adventurous hiker. And yet as they walked, none of the brush struck Aziraphale, none of the fallen trees tripped him up, and not a single bur snagged on his trousers. He suspected that was Crowley’s doing. 

Living in London for the last two centuries, Aziraphale hadn’t spent very much time in nature. It wasn’t really his thing, to be honest. He much preferred an overstuffed chair in a cozy apartment with a bustling city life just outside his front door.

But he had to admit, walking through the forest with Crowley was nothing short of absolutely gorgeous. The trees were spread out far enough to let in rays of sunshine, though not enough that the forest floor was overgrown. Birds were singing and bustling around in the branches above them, and somewhere in the distance, Aziraphale could hear a brook babbling. And though they couldn’t be more than a half a mile away from the busy orchard, it felt as if, in this moment, they were the only two human-looking beings on the planet. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and let the woody smell of the trees fill his nose. He wanted to remember this. 

Crowley was walking ahead of him, muttering to himself, sometimes turning to the left before rearing back to the right, with the air of someone who knew where they were going but couldn’t quite remember the way. Aziraphale got the distinct impression the demon had been here before, without him, and recently. His stomach swooped again. What was going on?

“Aha!” Crowley exclaimed, finally stopping. Aziraphale stopped too, and tried to see what Crowley was looking at. His heart was racing. Then Crowley said, “Here’s the tree with the great ugly knot on it!”

He pointed triumphantly at a tree, which did indeed have a great ugly knot on it. Aziraphale hadn’t the faintest idea what it meant, or why on earth Crowley had wanted to show it to him, but apparently, this was the big “part two” of their outing. His stomach sank.

Aziraphale scolded himself for his stupid, useless disappointment. What had he expected? Romance? A _declaration_? Crowley didn’t return his feelings. He’d told himself that over and over, and yet, apparently, in his heart of hearts, he hadn’t truly believed it. He’d still had hope that his deepest desire was going to come true.

“Erm, yes,” Aziraphale said distantly, and then forced himself to smile. “Well, it’s a very nice tree, dear. Thank you for showing it to me. Now, shall we just…?”

He turned to go back the way they came, ready to leave this day behind. He wanted to wallow in his feelings in the comfort of his bed. He’d thought he’d made his peace with being just friends with Crowley. He hadn’t expected to feel this sad about it. 

Crowley snagged his wrist. “Angel,” he said impatiently. “I didn’t drag you on a hike through the woods to show you some knotty old tree.”

“You- you didn’t?” Aziraphale was staring at Crowley’s hand on his wrist. Crowley always said he ran cold, but Aziraphale could feel the heat of the demon’s skin on his like it was a hot iron. “Then what did you drag me out here for?

“C’mon.” Crowley didn’t let go of Aziraphale’s wrist. Instead, he slid his hand neatly into Aziraphale’s and tugged him forward, past the knotty old tree, and into a clearing. 

At first, Aziraphale didn’t take note of their new surroundings. He was too preoccupied with Crowley’s hand in his, and the fact that Crowley was acting like holding hands was something they did all the time, which it very much was not. Then he saw Crowley looking at him expectantly, trying to gauge his reaction to their new surroundings. 

“Er,” Crowley cleared his throat self-consciously. “We’re here.”

Aziraphale tore his eyes away from Crowley’s and his hand and finally looked around. And—he couldn’t help it—he gasped. 

They were in the most beautiful meadow Aziraphale had ever seen. It was filled, it seemed, with every kind of wildflower, including a few species Aziraphale was quite sure were not native to this region. Butterflies were fluttering around them—yellow ones, orange ones, blue ones, and red ones. The sun was a deep golden yellow beating down on the field, which stretched on for at least a few miles.

And there, in the very center, was a patch of the softest-looking green grass with a tartan picnic blanket laid out, and a picnic basket on top of it. There was a candle lit, and two glasses of wine already poured.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. He registered dimly that he was tearing up, and that was probably something he ought to feel embarrassed about, but he could barely process anything over his pounding heart and the roaring in his ears. 

Crowley shifted anxiously next to him. “Fuck,” he said. “This is too much, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, tried to answer, but found that he could not yet speak.

“The tartan was definitely too much, right?” Crowley babbled nervously. “That was a last-minute change. I knew it was too far, I don’t know why I did it, really. And the candle… I mean, I may as well just have passed you a note that read, ‘Do you like me? X out for yes, no, or maybe,’ for fuck’s sake!”

Those words brought Aziraphale back to a present state of mind with a jolt. “Crowley,” he started, but Crowley was still talking, running his hands through his hair. Aziraphale allowed himself, just for a moment, to appreciate what gorgeous hair it was. 

“Look, if you just want to leave, that’s fine, we can just get in the Bentley and get out of here, you can make your caramel apples when we get back to London, and we’ll pretend this part never even happened-”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale, firmly this time. Crowley snapped his jaw shut with a click. “My dear. What- what exactly is it you’re saying here?”

“I’m saying…” Crowley trailed off, before taking a deep breath, steeling himself, and trying again, “I’m saying that I’m in love with you, angel. I have been for a really, really long time. I was, uh, kinda hoping that you maybe... felt the same way? What with all the, erm, dates? But,” he said hurriedly, “those can stay just friend dates, if you’d rather, I’m happy being your friend angel, ecstatic, really-”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, cutting him off again. “I don’t want them to stay just friend dates.”

“You- you don’t?”

“No.” Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hands. He was trembling, just slightly, but somehow felt calmer when he realized Crowley’s hands were shaking too. He took a deep breath and forced himself to be brave. “I love you, too.”

Crowley’s face broke into a smile the angel had never seen the demon wear before. It stretched across his entire face, and there was not a hint of irony or sarcasm in his eyes. “Really?”

Aziraphale had to laugh a little at that. “Yes, really. Though I admit I didn’t know what I was feeling for quite some time. It’s been a very confusing few weeks.”

Crowley couldn’t stop grinning, it seemed. “Don’t worry, angel. We’ll get you up to speed in no time. Could- would you mind if I, ah, kissed you?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale felt his heart pounding again. “Yes, I- I would like that.”

Crowley gently pulled his hands out of Aziraphale’s, and moved them to Aziraphale’s face. Slowly—slowly enough that Aziraphale knew Crowley was giving him time to change his mind if he wanted to—he brought their faces together. 

Aziraphale didn’t know what he had expected the demon’s lips to feel like—rough, perhaps, like fine sandpaper—but they were impossibly soft, warm, and gentle against his. It was very chaste—Crowley kept his hands lightly framing Aziraphale’s face, and Aziraphale kept his clamped to his side. He was grateful that Crowley made no attempt to deepen the kiss, because he wasn’t sure he was ready for anything more just yet. As is, his whole body felt like it was on fire, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep himself upright.

As if hearing that thought, Crowley pulled back and looked at Aziraphale, his eyes shining with an adoration and fondness Aziraphale had caught glimpses of before, but never with this intensity, and never for such a sustained period of time. Aziraphale swallowed. He knew his existence would never be the same after this moment, and he also knew that was absolutely for the better.

“Shall we get on with our last friend-date, angel? Crowley asked, amusement in his voice. “You did say you wanted a picnic, all those years ago. I’m assuming that was a platonic offer?” 

Aziraphale laughed. “My dear, I’m rather hoping this date will be the least platonic thing we’ve ever done.”

Crowley grinned. “Sounds like a plan to me.” 

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to every single person who left a comment. This is my first-ever published fic (New Year's Resolution achievement unlocked!) so the encouragement and feedback really meant so, so much. This has made the first three months of my 2020 a little brighter, despite the turmoil the world is in right now. Thank you. <3


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